Changing Breaths
by andagii-writes
Summary: [Heroes] While Rinslet continues her duties and studies as summoner and commander, she summons the fallen reflection of her dearest mentor. In Grima alone, she now commands an army, yet Grima's ill humor and scorn for Rinslet scratch her optimism. "For Askr's sake," she must find a way to work with hubris and evil personified... or become the Fell Dragon's next dinner.
1. Red and Black

_**A/N:** I never thought writing a Fire Emblem fic would be so difficult, but these 14k-ish words are the results of blood, sweat, and tears, lemme tell ya. _

_**Some warnings**. The protagonist and antagonist of this fic share **an abusive, power-struggle kind of relationship**. Indirect as it is, there is **choking** involved in this first half. Warnings for the second half will be in the next part._

 _Please also note that I am not looking for constructive criticism at this time. Rough as this story is, it's my hope you'll still be able to enjoy this Summoner-Hero relationship going all kinds of ways wrong._

* * *

I pulled a bad summon.

Not "bad" in the sense the luck of the draw went sideways, but "bad" in the sense that, an oppressive prickle electrified the air when Breidablik fired. While Askr's divine weapon still puzzles me, Breidablik's made its home at my hip long enough it's more of a spiritual companion rather than a ceremonial tool. Maybe the gun's white and gold patterns feel familiar, like the official Order robes Commander Anna handed me. Or maybe, the weird effortlessness of wielding Breidablik—the fact I already know how to aim, fire, reload, holster—proves the weapon belongs to me, and only me.

Or maybe, a gun's still a gun no mater where or how it's used.

Still, it almost felt like Breidablik swallowed and hitched with me, when the winds around the dais turned black, and the air stung acidic with the taste of ruin. We both knew we'd botched the summon.

 _I am the wings of despair._

According to other Summoners across the Outrealms, I'm supposed to thank the gods for such a fearsome ally.

 _I am the breath of ruin_.

All in Askr agree, this darkness is the furthest from their image of a formidable ally. Even the castle's inhabitants believe I'm in over my head, and the "painless death" he promises in exchange for my piety probably looms closer than I can imagine. Askr prince and Order of Heroes member Alfonse says gambling's become a trend since Grima arrived. The bets, of course, revolve around how Rinslet the Summoner will end up in the Fell Dragon's jaws. Head-first or feet-first? In parts or whole? Will she feel her shoulders tear? Or will she be deep asleep, graciously unaware?

I want none of those options, which is why I'm at the castle's library, with old tomes, scrolls, quill pens, and ink bottles acting as the mortar, buttress, tower, and parapet of a fortress around my face stuck on the table. If Robin, seated on the other side of my fortress, can hear my sobbing, he's thankfully leaving me alone. It's either that, or while equally dismal about Breidablik's choice in summons, he maintains his peace.

Robin has it worse, really, and I'm likely crying more on his behalf than fear for myself. Grima wears Robin's face—fair features, white hair, black robes and all—and the Fell Dragon doesn't get its name for being a master fly-swatter. Ylisse, of which Robin's limited memory says he's native, knows as much.

I have only one saving grace: my role as Askr's Summoner means I have power over Grima's actions, and the consequences he reaps.

"You could send it away," Robin suggests yet again. "Gods know that should ease you."

"You're still saying that for my sake," I sniff, "not necessarily for Askr. Genius tactician that you are, you know Grima alone nets us the power of an entire army."

"If we can play with fire without getting burned. So let's think this through again." He opens another book nearby and scans the pages. "We'll need to cover its weaknesses. Kana has a penchant for protecting others, especially family and fellow dragons. Maybe we can use that."

I peel my face from the table, cheek numb from the unforgiving wooden surface. "Kana's innocent. A little naïve, so I see the direction you're going." I put my head back down, the table muffling me again. "But hard pass. I'll be drowning in complaints from his _mama_."

Robin chuckles. His quill pen scratches across parchment. "Then, if you think naivete will help, what about Fae?"

"Also innocent," I reply. "Even more than Kana. The fact she's a fledgling Divine Dragon might soften Grima's corners, but he also might have her as his chicken dinner."

"As long as we've been working together," says Robin, his grimace audible, "I still can't seem to get used to your sense of humor."

"Coping mechanism." I pick myself up into a slouch over the table. "But if you're going to keep talking Divine Dragons, would Tiki be up to supporting him?"

"Both instances of her avoid it like the plague." He blows out a long sigh and taps the point of his pen to a marching tempo. "Although, if it's a matter of Tiki's preference, your position might establish a supportive relationship. If we can just…maybe? No."

There he trails off, lost in thought. Through a crack between the towering tomes, dusty sunlight flickers through and illuminates Robin's golden eyes. As he skims through his open book, he barely glances away to scribble notes and patterns on the parchment next to him. Even when he dips his pen into an ink bottle within arm's reach, his reading hardly stutters.

He's so focused, I have to drop my voice to a whisper. "Your ability to still think tactics despite the emotional toll is truly amazing to me."

Robin snorts a chuckle. His frown softens. "That's the strategy, really," he says. "Look at your facts as links to your objective. Look at your resources, make your plans, make your second and third plans, and try to make it all work. I guess it does require some emotional suppression." He looks up at me from his reading and hides a smile. "If it's too much for you, I'm happy to do all this on your behalf, Rinslet."

I'm no good at maintaining objectivity. Alfonse likens me to his sister for this habit. Regarding my relationships with the summoned Heroes, he warns me to rein myself in before the effort kills me.

But empathy's a damned thing that builds trust, and trust pushes units— _no, not "allies" or "colleagues," Rinslet, "brothers" and "sisters"_ —to support each other. Support leads to victory, and victory means I can go home.

By my will, hopefully.

After the reigning peace I've enjoyed in Askr, "home" is nothing nice to me. Medieval life, with no running water and driven mainly by horsepower, takes some getting used to, but a refreshing sense of honor codes this world's way of life. People favor cooperation and filling in for the weaknesses of many, in the name of a collective vision for happy, peaceful lives. Selfishness and hubris, meanwhile, earn this world's disparaging eye. It's so different, that I wonder what these Heroes would think of my world, a world run by blood and money. Part of me wonders if I'll ever want to go back.

So if I piss off Grima, that choice might be made for me. Dying here may mean I go back there. It's a not a theory I want to test yet.

I push a stack of books aside, widening the gap in my wall so I can properly talk to Robin. "Grima looks like you. Any other similarities I can work with?"

"Hardly." Robin taps his pen again. "As far as its nature, we're lucky enough to have Lucina with us, but even she's without detailed information."

Lucina, the close-mouthed key to all the information I need to sort out this debacle. While I won't force anything out of her, I hope she opens up to me in the very near future.

The tapping halts. Inspiration flashes across Robin's features, his pen frozen in mid-air. He blinks with the process of his thoughts. "What you said: the fact it looks like me," he starts, "may be a starting point."

"Enlighten me."

"If our appearances are the same…" He flicks his pen around, pointing the quill at me. "Can we assume our thoughts are at least similar?"

"You said hardly."

"Then I have to consider why Grima looks like me. I must have done something, or allowed something to happen, for it to assume my image. Or—!" Robin drops his pen and claps his hands in revelation. "Or it's as simple as, I am—or become—the Fell Dragon."

Dead silence drops over us, as Robin's features pale. A grimace wrinkling his brow, he casts his gaze down.

I reach over and spin his pen back into my hand, offering it feather-first. "Don't force yourself to believe something you don't want to," I murmur. "Besides, without dragon blood in you, how could you become something so evil?"

Robin, sighing, pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't know." He squeezes his eyes shut, likely against another of his frequent headaches. "Someone more well-versed in dark magic could probably answer that, but I'll move forward with the assumption Grima and I are one and the same."

"Robin—"

"Rinslet. We have to figure out a strategy for dealing with Grima. Remember, you have to consider the situation from every perspective you can imagine."

He's right, of course. I just hate that it's a sordid assumption Robin has to make.

"Grima and I," he says again after a long pause, "are the same person. Which leads me to believe we may possess the same thought processes." Robin, finally relaxing, lifts a smile to me. "Meaning, all you may have to do, is just be you."

I roll my eyes and slouch back over the table. "It can't be that simple."

"Then let me explain," Robin chuckles. "At the risk of sounding like an admirer, anyway." Taking back his pen, he flips through his book. "You have a very personal approach when handling the Heroes you summon. You acquiesce to their needs. You respect their boundaries while maintaining your demeanor as their commander. None of that should change just because you're dealing with the Fell Dragon."

"Except I'm risking my life every time I even look at him."

"But remember, Grima is using a human image—my image. If I'm part of that image in some way, I refuse to believe I'm not fighting back against it."

"So you think I can appeal to the possible you resisting Grima?" Sounds more like a desperate ploy, but confidence rings in Robin's tone. Yet, I have to counter. "You understand Grima's your exact opposite. Where you calculate, he's random. You're optimistic, and he's the darkest pits of pessimistic. You consider me a close friend, a precious ally, while he considers me _supper_."

"Listen to yourself." Resting both elbows on top of his book, Robin leans forward. "You're calling 'it' a 'he.' You're giving it an identity beyond a _thing_. If there's any fragment of good—of me—left in it, I believe you're the only person who can reach it."

"Is he really nothing to you except the Fell Dragon?" If I'm to believe Robin, then I also have to believe Grima is more than his role. I have to believe, regardless of his distaste for me and the rest of the world, the fact he looks like Robin must mean a shred of human grace hides somewhere within the Fell Dragon. Hard for me to believe, therefore, that Robin, the crazy one suggesting I may be able to forge a bond with Grima, believes the Fell Dragon is nothing more than that.

Robin, however, flashes a smile. "You highlight my point." Great, he's deflecting again. "Michalis, Ursula, Valter, Julius, Celica, Hardin—all individuals we believed too far gone, you reigned in under your command."

"They weren't trying to _eat_ me."

"To which I raise you 'Empty Vessel' Takumi. You were in his sights for a while at the beginning."

Then, after a lot of sprinting and disjointed conversation, in a rare moment of partial lucidity, a headache threw him into the lake. After I fished him out, and despite the settling fog in his clarity, he'd growled out, "It was never—never just killing. It was—I wanted—to protect. My kingdom. My family. I remember that. I remember that—because of you. You're not—not the enemy. I know. I know that."

Since then, Skadi in hand, Takumi quietly and obediently awaits his orders.

I can't count on the same change of heart in Grima. After all, charisma and charm do nothing to get these so-called "fallen" heroes to trust me. It's mostly clumsy conversation, and another something else I've never been able to name. Robin must be putting his faith in that.

He's a dear, truly. His faith in his allies, and his enthusiasm for tactics infect me with a strange optimism I haven't felt since finishing my own training. There I grudgingly learned basic tactics, but when Robin gives me the chance to see his work, he teaches me to see not just the battlefield, but also the horizon, and the light beyond. Next to him, I breathe easy, lighthearted, and judging his conviction to support me, he may feel the same?

Yet another part of me hopes he never touches my darkest corners. I hope he never thinks those corners even exist within my affect—

Like that corner that says, _I wish my world would burn_.

I have dreams, even while in Askr, about buildings melting and crumbling into the cracked asphalt. About the sky burning and stinging with smoke and fumes bursting from the sea and soil. About watching, through my scope, people running, tearing into each other with nail and tooth, like monsters from childhood nightmares. 'Ashes to ashes,' I sing to myself. 'Dust to dust.' _Burn motherfucker, burn_. And in these dreams, as I lie prone on the rooftop of the last standing building, a shadow stalks behind me. Whose grace lets me enjoy this moment, before ending my reflection? Who grins as they kick me into the pyre of bodies below?

Who laughs over my falling body and praises my coming end?

 _Head-first or feet-first? In parts or whole? Will she feel her shoulders tear? Or will she be deep asleep, graciously unaware?_

'Just be you,' says Robin. Me, with my thoughts of burn and decay, with my bloody hands and numbed chest? Someone once told me I'm not alone in those thoughts. So maybe, just maybe, Robin may have a point.

I'll have to take a shot at "bonding" with Grima, and the possible Robin within him.

* * *

Birdsong chirps in the radiant air as sunlight glows through a perennial verdance. Button-sized butterflies distract the youthful Heroes into laughing games of chase-and-catch. As I, heading for the gates, cross the grounds, amiable Heroes offer greetings and small talk. While some offer prayers and encouragement, others have enough guts to mention they bet on Grima's appetite over my hardiness.

Truthfully, I'm betting on dragon teeth in my gut as well.

Past the gates, around the city perimeter, up an old uneven road and over the rocky remains of ancient ceremonial ground, I walk, until I approach the summoning dais where Commander Anna first sprung me, and where Grima's desolate winds began circling over Askr. The oppressive influence still lingers, centering on the figure before the altar. Not Robin, despite the black robes and white hair. Ashen breeze and dark fire wreathing him, Robin's back—Grima's back—begs for provocation. Or at least, a well-aimed bullet to his head.

But as his summoner, I know better than to let first impressions rule my judgment. I also know to keep my mouth shut, as one of those tenants of piety he forces upon me in exchange for my well-being. The trade also includes his control of the Askrian summoning dais, as he apparently likes the nostalgic resemblance to his own Dragon's Table.

By the sound of my steps, or the smell of my robes, he knows I'm behind him. His dark aura writhes with his voice, though he keeps his back to me. "So is this the day," he says, "that you let me tear you limb from limb?"

My stomach curdles at that malevolent hiss to Robin's voice. Even with the dais's impressive radius between us, I wish Grima were still further away. But I can't run now. Concentrate, Rins. I summoned him. I command him. I can be me; I have to stay me, else Grima's maw will snap me into bits. "That'll never happen. I'm accommodating for you here, so maybe you can reward me with your cooperation?"

He finally turns around, scarlet eyes sparking with defiance. If Chrom ever needs proof Robin can make an ugly scowl, Grima's the answer. "Typical. You do one, perhaps two favors for me, and you expect reciprocation. You don't even realize your debt's compounding every time you speak."

"You'll have to forgive my late payments, then. I don't have much value to my name."

Grima's scowl twists into a challenging smirk. He steps toward me, each scuff of his heel on the stone stirring dark clouds at his feet. "Cheeky. But do reconsider testing me like this."

I want to jump back and re-open the distance Grima's closing, but my muscles won't coil. He's already here. My bones are locked. Sweat frosts against my neck and down my back. _He's already here!_ How am I already so terrified? What can he possibly do to me that I haven't imagined already?

Grima seizes a fistful of robe and shirt at my collar and hoists me above him. My stomach drops as the ground suddenly disappears. Feeling drains from my body. The shadows around him creep up his arm and gather into a piercing glow that illuminates his crimson eyes and my reflection in them. "That's a much better expression on you." He lowers me 'til my toes barely touch the ground and grazes his cheek against mine. The heat of his draconic breath sears across my ear. "Know your place."

His grip pinches my collar, its seams digging into my neck. My heart rattles. My body flares in icy-hot waves. This is it. Yet a corner of me forces to stare directly into Grima's eyes. That corner, quiet, waiting, challenging, narrows my vision like I'm looking through a scope, but this isn't courage. Is it the "Summoner" title? Or maybe it's Breidablik's steadying weight against my hip. Or maybe, the dissonance of Grima's hiss and strength in Robin's voice and grip reminds me, _I have to be me_.

I laugh.

Both hands clenched tight around his wrist, I laugh a helpless giggle. I'm breaking. In this short exchange, I'm shattering, but I'm not the only one.

Grima's sneer breaks as well, into wary confusion. He drops me to the ground and steps back. "I suppose," he starts, "you have no one to caution your foolishness for seeking me on your own."

Oh, I have counsel, but I always forget their advice. But never will I take firm ground, or the freedom around my collar, for granted again. Shudders rattle through my nerves. Sweat trickles down my temples and drips from my chin. "So?" My palms, pressed against the pale, engraved ground, shake with my unsteady arms. "You're sparing me out of pity?"

"Were pity a deciding factor, I would have already devoured you." He crouches, the folds of his robes shuffling as he creeps close again. His blood-red eyes test me. "Luck falls ever in your favor, doesn't it?"

I'm not—I won't back down.

First breath, I steady my shaking limbs.

Second breath, I look up from the ground and meet his eyes again.

Third breath: a challenging snort that melts into a chuckle. "Then I'll take advantage of the opportunity," I say. "When you're feeling a little less murderous, I want to negotiate."

His lips peel back into a sneer. The spark of his eyes suggests an amused acceptance of my challenge. "You're promising me a playdate, Rinslet. Don't keep me waiting."

* * *

I _hate_ the sound of my name on his voice.

Most times, in deference to our stations, summoned Heroes address me by title.

 _Summoner, how shall I assist?_

 _Summoner, please feel free to command me as you see fit._

 _Summoner, may I ask a favor of you?_

Then Grima comes along, and now my name sounds like cursed venom. It goddamn sticks. His voice twists, coils, and settles like a damp haze in my ears. Despite the crisp, starry night outside, the memory of his voice won't let me sleep.

In the vanity mirror across from my bed, my sleepless eyes, red like the Fell Dragon's, glare back at me frustration. They're already starting to hollow from churning too many bottled thoughts.

Cool spring air wafts in through my open window and its sheer curtains, as I lay in bed with the covers over my shoulders. I force my thoughts to other topics: possible formations against Múspell, weapons inventory and distribution among the Heroes, the supper I ditched and how to play my excuses the next morning, and—now there's a soothing image—Robin's eyes. Golden eyes like starlight, watching, calculating, and softening with intellect and understanding, sympathy and encouragement, and—gods, _stop_ , Rinslet. Reel yourself back to reality. Go to sleep.

The scarlet eyes in the mirror close. Loose waves of steel-blue hair dip forward with the head nodding against the pillow.

Across the shadowy threshold to my dreams, a red light flashes past like a piercing arrow. Pain pounds into my head like a spike driving into my skull, an echo chamber for the hiss that reverberates,

 _Intriguing. I can hear the whispers of the shadows within you._

"Grima!" My body seizes at the same I gasp the name. I'm choking on my own voice. The headache hammers deeper.

 _I warned you, Rinslet. I told you to not make me wait._

Sweat drenching my sheets and throws, I throw myself into a back-breaking curl, face buried into my pillow. "That was only this afternoon!"

 _Your defiance earned you this suffering. I don't accept apologies, either._

My head spins and shuffles, as though a hand sifts through scattered photographs on a table. That same hand stops its rummaging upon touching certain images: crumbling buildings, mid-morn Askr. Burning skies. Robin's eyes.

A tongue click. _Rinslet, dear Rinslet, you have some terribly unwholesome images buried deep in this mind of yours! I suggest we bond over these instead!_

My head's about to split from the base of my skull. If I scream right now, someone may come running, and the distraction may drive Grima out of my head. Yes. Strategizing like this somewhat dulls the pound of the intruding spike. This may work. Just a little more; just fight it a little more. Tears squeeze out of my eyes as sweat pours again in icy beads over my skin. "That's not for you to decide, now is it?" I hiss back. "Get out— _augh_ —of my goddamn head!"

Grima snickers. _Desperation makes your voice rather tantalizing, you know._

I turn over, throwing hair out of my face to rip out my loudest possible scream, but at the first eking breath, a pressure clenches around my throat. My voice dies, gasping, choking for air.

 _Don't assume you know the limits of this body, frail as it may be. Shall I have to teach you?_

Why am I so pathetic? I'm the goddamn Summoner, Grima—telepathic strangling _worm_ that he is—my servant. Damn me for not listening to Alfonse's warnings: _I say this for your sake, Rinslet. Keep your distance_. Damn "forging bonds" and damn Robin's encouragement, and _fuck_ this slithering _bitch_ with his greater-than-thou attitude and ugly-as-shit face! Who does he think he is—who I am?!

Like breaking free from drowning, I wrench my head back. "You. Do not. _Rule me!_ "

An unseen cord snaps like a breaking whip. The hand constricting me jerks back from my throat and the scattered pictures in my head. I choke down the night air, tingling my burning throat into coughs. The red light fades, but not without a last chuckled whisper:

 _You and I will have to play again._

A pallid girl with my steely hair and scarlet eyes stares from the mirror. Tears streak her cheeks and run sweat over the corner of her lips, as she grinds her palms into her eyes. I'm breathing. I'm alive. But am I awake? Am I dreaming?

Questions echo in my head for the rest of the night.

* * *

Through morning council the next day, Robin keeps examining my face. Though he refrains from commenting while we review funds and inventory with commanders and fellow tacticians, he quickly catches up to me upon dismissal. After matching my brisk pace for a length, he seizes my sleeve and yanks me aside. "Pardon my bluntness," he says, "but you look like death."

We stand in the shade of an outdoor hall, as Robin releases my sleeve. I close my eyes. "It's what happens when you _face_ death twice within the same day," I reply. Birdsong and puffs of sun-warmed air prod at my insomnia and promise me peaceful rest. If not for Robin's presence, I would have tried nodding off here. With administrative work to take care of, however, I rub my eyes open. "Try not to look so surprised."

"This isn't surprise," Robin blurts. "This is anger at myself." His fingers curl against the edges of the tome cradled against him. "I knew the risks and yet suggested you try negotiating with it."

"It was my decision in the end, and in the end, I'm fine. I'm alive."

"Alive, yes, but you're not fine-!"

"—Alright then! I'm rattled! Just a little rattled, but I'm alive. That's what ultimately matters, isn't it?"

Clouds settle over the morning with Robin's beleaguered exhale. Wordlessly, he follows the patterns of scattered sunlight, wavering with the sway of the morning breeze. A worried frown knits his brow, while consternation makes him drum his fingers against his tome. Robin's spells of deep thought usually lighten me, but this morning, the sensation of eyes staring through the walls concerns me more. The gaze burns into the skin of my back—I swear the inflamed marks rise into blisters even as I try focusing on Robin.

Still, for his sake, to keep him from worrying any more, I have to act my part. I shrug off my crawling shudders and tap a knuckle against his tome. "This isn't my first time trying to negotiate with death incarnate. Have some faith in me."

His expression stays grim. "Some argue I have _too_ much faith in you."

With a nudge, I prompt him to match my stroll down the hall. Speckled light passes over us, while Robin keeps his wary gaze on me. "Niles, I'm guessing? Or Alfonse? He warns me so much—"

"—Because you're the Summoner." He finishes my thought so abruptly, we both stop in our tracks. As Robin casts his gaze from me to the floor, his bangs obscure his expression. "And I'm a 'Hero' obligated to follow you."

"Are you?"

"Honestly? I forget those titles exist." Though starting as a mutter, his voice steels as he sweeps an arm across, indicating the morning, our steps, and the conversation between us. "This feels natural to me. Familiar. Like I was always meant to be here supporting you, so the fact I worry about you, and hold so much of my faith in you? That's not out of contractual obligation."

Robin's voice diminishes again. His shoulders sag. "I simply _want_ to."

Then what about the exact opposite? What if a Hero holds _no_ faith in me? How far can he back out and reject his Summoner? What measures will he dare to take, out of spite or distaste, to terminate our contract? The thought alone revives the needling of eyes burning into my back. He's watching me.

Think, Rinslet. If the Summoner-Hero contract can't coerce Grima into cooperating, what can I offer him? We're on our way to the armory—would a dragonstone help my case? Then again, does the Fell Dragon's breath of ruin need any further amplification?

The idea may tempt him, though in a different shape. "What if I offered him the Merge ritual?"

And thus promise to summon more iterations of it? Don't be hasty, and don't be foolish on top of that."

"But I have to offer something—!"

"Something that doesn't add to your headache. You're already having this much trouble with one Grima. What makes you think you can handle ten?"

"Then what made _you_ decide you wanted to stay with me?"

"That's not—it wasn't something you offered. I don't think I can easily define it," says Robin, rubbing the back of his neck. "But between mentoring you, and following you into battle, you gave me the opportunity to see some unexpected, admirable sides of you. And now…"

A part of me wants to hear the remainder of Robin's statement, but another part already knows. He and I can stand close enough to touch, and he no longer hesitates to give me head pats and shoulder rubs, because of this familiarity we now share. He worries for me, about me, and beats himself up over my misguided decisions, because now…

Now's not the best time to define the rest of that thought, nor entertain the idea of allowing Robin in to the darkest avenues of my thoughts. Now, I have to think about repeated exposure, and how I can use that concept to rein in Grima. Repeated exposure earned me Robin's attention and trust. Can it earn me Grima's wings as well? I tug on Robin's sleeve. "The Training Tower. That's how you let me practice. If we can drag Grima along for a few runs at the Tower—!"

"I seriously can't recommend it after seeing you like this."

"I'm also your Summoner, Robin. And you, as a Hero, are obligated to follow me, right?" Robin winces, his aggravation clear from his deep frown. "Not funny. Sorry. But if I make him work with me, and with a team that can both support and check him, then maybe…"

"You're being far too optimistic."

"Part of my job description, isn't it?" And also habit, to keep my sanity stitched together.

"None of us expect you to deny reality."

"Which is the last thing I'd do—I'm the insomniac dealing with the combination of Fell Dragon powers combined with your image and smarts!" And since Robin refuses to consider using the Summoner's Merge ritual as a bargaining chip, I'm forced to think of other angles to manipulate.

The Fell Dragon's powers, plus Robin's intellect. There's something there. If not Robin himself, then his image— _his body_. Grima's draconic powers—the source of his pride—plus the limits of Robin's human body. I blink against puffy eyes. "That's it—that was my mistake. I tried approaching him as a rational human, but Grima is a dragon, a god by most standards. So if I approached him as a follower—!"

"You've truly lost your wits this time."

"Then as a commander that acknowledges his ability! That's why I'm saying, help me with deployment!"

"Rins," Robin, massaging a temple, groans, "this is just a naïve, bad idea—you really should consider letting it go."

"What if I promise to take you with me?"

Momentary relief flickers in his breath, as the tension in his face and shoulders loosens. Still, he blows a heavy sigh. "So you force it to follow your command," he says. "Meaning you give it enough reason to target you on the battlefield."

Finally, some cooperation. "Which is why I'm considering Chrom, Tiki, or Lucina for this operation."

Robin glowers. "We can't risk losing a Divine Dragon," he mutters. "Tiki is out of the question, but I can recommend Chrom. Should Grima decide to turn on you, we can count on Chrom to provoke it to distraction."

And he's likely to hit hard enough to put Grima out, at least before Grima can counter. "Leaving Lucina for consideration. Did she inherit her father's heavy hand?"

"Anna won't let Lucina or Chrom near any dummies or walls for good reason." The lighthearted image seems to ease more of Robin's concern, though he still sounds resigned. "I would recommend Lucina as well, but I won't speak to her on your behalf."

I can agree with that. This plan is my responsibility, after all. I'll make it work.

* * *

"Absolutely out of the question."

By the castle lakeside and under the boughs of a sprawling oak tree, Lucina fixes me in place with her stern tone. Robin had warned me on this swift rejection, but Lucina's frankness stabs deep. "Look," I try, "I know you're afraid. That's why I'm giving you a chance to run him through if he gets out of hand."

"You say it's for Askr's sake, but do you understand exactly what you're trying to command? You're proposing to commit the same mistakes as the Grimleal."

"That's what I want to avoid. Besides, I'm still no expert at summoning. If I summon another Grima—!"

" _Another_ —?!"

"We have to be ready!" I feel like a bad con-artist before Lucina's pursed lips, blanched as the rest of her ghostly pallor. "Granted," I add, "the chances are slim."

"But summoning," Lucina finishes, hands clasped and features downcast, "is an unpredictable art." She sighs. "You're right, of course. We'll need a strategy."

Can I at least ease some of her anxiety? I take her hands in both of mine. "There's a silver lining to this." I wait until Lucina's blue eyes meet mine. "Because I'm the one holding him under contract, Grima's fixation is solely on me."

"How is that any better? Imagine if something happened to you—Alfonse, Askr, _Robin_ —!"

I squeeze her hands, cutting off her train of thought. Alfonse, Askr, the Order of Heroes, the Nifl royalty, and Robin, of _course_ Robin—all the good things I know and love and now can't imagine living without. I wonder if they believe the same of me. "I don't plan on becoming the Fell Dragon's midnight snack. That's why I'm asking you to team up with your father and come with us—!"

"That monster _murdered_ my father, Rinslet."

"And I promise I won't let that happen here. I'm saying you can be there as further assurance."

I let her hands go, as realization dawns in her features. Hands still folded, Lucina brings her shaking knuckles against her lips. Praying, I think—other Heroes see her often at the castle chapel, hands clasped and head bowed before the image of Divine Dragon Askr. Am I baiting her? Am I preying on Lucina's devotion to her father and forcing her into my plan by dangling Chrom's life before her?

I like to think I'm not that cunning. I'm not purposely putting Chrom, Lucina, or Robin in harm's way for my benefit. As I see it, I'm the only one putting my neck between Grima's jaws. The others can run back to their worlds if he snaps his mouth shut, and I'd never blame them. These plans, this conversation, I make and do because I'm his summoner. I have to get him under control, but I know I can't do it alone.

Lucina, loosening her hands, turns away to face the lakeside. A kind wind wafts past and up, as though taking her prayer to the heavens. "Robin must have asked you to consider terminating your contract—I second his proposal."

"I agree, wholeheartedly. But I also believe we can use Grima's power to our advantage."

"It's not like you to ignore Robin's word."

"Grima's certainly not a safe gamble. I know firsthand. And yet…" I hate the words coming out of my mouth, but as Lucina, defeat shading her features into sorrow, turns to me, I keep my nerve together. "My summoning him here somehow muddled his memories. That's what he believes, and every fiber in me says to use his assumption to the best of my ability. I can beat him."

"That bet will kill you. I can promise you that."

"But at least Chrom will be safe, right?"

"Rinslet—!"

"Lucina." I need to get her to at least agree to this run at the Training Tower, for my ease of mind regarding Chrom's and Robin's safety. "As long as I can stay close to Grima, he's less likely to take out his mood swings on you or the others."

As flower petals drift along the breeze and land on the lake's surface in silent ripples, Lucina squares her shoulders. "Would you at least tell me what Robin recommended you?"

"That I drop this plan and terminate my contract with Grima." I watch Lucina's shoulders drop. Relief? She says nothing else. "He accommodated for my stubbornness though, and did recommend your help."

Lucina's lips curl into a small smile. "He's grown weak to your requests," she says. "Father's unquestioning faith must be rubbing off on him." She curls her fingers around the pommel of her sheathed sword. "And that's why I must support them, yes?"

Call it manipulation, or baiting, or whatever fits this negotiation. I'll never try to justify my actions, and in fact invite the criticism I deserve. I do, however, have a war to win and a kingdom to protect. No matter what I personally must sacrifice, I plan to use every resource I can.

That's my habit.

My position.

My responsibility.


	2. Vice and Virtue

_**A/N: Warnings right off the bat.** There's a lot of **blood**. And blood starts from the body of a character._

 _Thank you all for your time and patience, especially considering I am still not looking for constructive criticism on this fic. In all its roughness and room for improvement, I hope you still enjoy this dubious Summoner-Hero relationship._

 _You can find me at my Tumblr by following the link in my profile. Andagii out._

* * *

While the Training Tower's interior lies in its own separate dimension, I'm still not optimistic about the building holding up against Grima's power. The apparition he summons, a pointed draconic head with six gleaming red eyes and teeth bristling on the edges of its leathery lip, seems enough to make the Tower's walls tremble. Those with enough backbone to stand against Grima's visage end up at the so-called "mercy" of his breath, an evil combination of rot and dragon-fire. Burning yet decaying at the same time, they crumble on the spot, to which Grima responds with an amused, dry cackle.

To my commands— _split here, circle 'round, reposition, take the lead!_ —Grima replies with grudging obedience. While snarling at Chrom's and Lucina's supports, he strikes when I tell him, and otherwise stays his hand. Yet calculation glitters in his crimson eyes, and at every pause, the shimmering nightmare over him coils its head toward me and stares, mouth hanging open.

Robin stands next to me, tome open and cradled against him. Throughout this sortie, he's made a point of never leaving my side. "You realize," I mumble, "your magic will hardly affect him?"

"I won't even scratch it," Robin agrees. "But you know I'm not so naïve."

A pegasus knight, her mount's feathers charred and blistered flesh peeling, crumbles to ash in the sky. Grima kicks aside the knight's ruined lance with a clatter, while the writhing head above him bears down on a nearby armored knight. Robin and I glance away at the resounding _crunch_.

"I also know," I grumble, " that I'm not the only one who makes reckless decisions around here. If you're considering throwing yourself in front of him—!"

"I promised I'd stay here," Robin answers. "And I'd hate to imagine myself without this contract between us." Smiling, he refocuses his attention to meet the draconic eyes of his other self. "Instead, I've put some ploys in place, to keep you safe."

Ploys: likely secondary commands Robin left for Chrom and Lucina. He's brilliant enough to run his own tactics in parallel to mine, after all, but will he stay sensible? Chrom gives his assurance, and Lucina wouldn't have agreed to this mission without Robin's word. With Grima's eyes settling steadily on me, though, I have to believe all three of them. I have to stay optimistic, that for now, my idea of forcing Grima to rely on my command is working.

But I know too, that I can't deny reality for long.

The pages of Robin's open tome nearly crumples under the pressure of his fingers. "Rinslet," he starts, "you have to consider calling a retreat, before it turns—!"

"—I'm not backing down."

"What you're showing right now isn't strength—it's stubbornness. Call the retreat once we're done here."

"I'm seeing this operation to the end. You're not changing my mind."

In the distance, the opposing vanguard's remaining stragglers move out to the flanks of the field. Weaving and dashing from cover to cover, they, hammers and spears bristling, lock on to Grima. They skirt past Chrom and Lucina, while rallying each other with war cries as they close in on the Fell Dragon. Even without my input, Chrom and Lucina race after and cut off as many of these enemies as they can.

Yet Grima stands stock still, eyes ever locked on me.

Robin tugs on my shoulder. "Call the retreat."

Grima regards his aggressors with ennui, before a triumphant scowl twists his features. He steps back and dips low as an enemy spear sails over and him and crashes into the far wall. Like a slow-moving picture, he pivots between sword arcs slicing at him; Chrom and Lucina intercept them, while Grima, sneering, skirts past them.

"Call the retreat, Rinslet!"

His eyes, fiery, sparking, bore into me. Even the dragon's lip creases into a cackling smile.

Then his voice—I slam both hands over my ears but I can't blot it out—churns its way into my head: _What say you to having a little fun here, dear Rinslet?_

A piercing shriek stabs through my head. The visions of my dreams: my burning world, with Grima's embellishments—the dead walking, rivers running blister-red, acid rain dissolving the hills, screams echoing into the noxious sky—rush past my eyes in a scrambled fever dream.

 _Kneel to me._

"No way." The ghostly dragon head leers at me. "No damned way."

Next to me, Robin, groaning, presses his free hand over his head. "What is this—this headache?!"

 _Oh?_ Grima crouches as his apparition dissolves like thinning fog. Six aural appendages sprout from his back like tree branches, feathers bristling like dried leaves. He bursts forward in a gliding rush. _This warrants a closer inspection…_

Chrom's and Lucina's protests sound like hazy scratches at the edges of my mind. Steely clashes ring as they break out of their locks. Their mad dash rattles against the ground as Robin leans into me with a heavy thud.

Then the head appears again, cackling over me. Its jaws open, a coagulase liquid running between each jutting fang. A second line of teeth glitters inside the maw; I can already see myself in ribbons between them. Grima stretches out his hand, fingers curled like talons and glowing with the same dark embers as those roiling in the back of the dragon's throat.

 _Try again, Rinslet. Kneel._

"No goddamned way, y'hear me?" The shrieking pierces harder, like a drill against my skull. "Scream all you want up here, but I won't kneel to you!"

Grima's roar— _Then suffer the consequences_ —like the bellowing dirge of a thousand dead, shakes the walls of the Tower. The head writhes furiously, snarls, then torpedoes down.

I close my eyes. It'll burn. It'll hurt. It'll melt the flesh off my bones, before the teeth lacerate me sideways and apart. It'll rip my muscles and sever my tendons, and the blood will run through its grinding teeth. Gods, at least let me faint. Let me die peacefully, like a long sleep. Let me—

"Rins."

Robin?

"Gods, Rinslet." Chrom? "I knew you're one for crazy plans, but I hope Robin is teaching you proper tactics over bull-headed recklessness!"

"Like commander, like tactician, wouldn't you say, Father?" Lucina. Despite her exasperated tone, she still smiles behind her words.

"You're making this my fault now?"

Robin chuckles. "I did at least teach her that normalcy is the best means of raising morale."

"Then this truly was the best team for this mission," Lucina sighs. "I suppose I should have known better than to doubt you."

Distantly, Chrom's starting to preach again about the power of their bonds, which I've always thought as cute theatrics to unify the army. But I can't ridicule him this time, because through this banter, Chrom and Lucina hold their twin Falchions crossed and guarding against Grima's fist. A glowing blue serpent, tail coiled around Robin's arm, pushes back against the apparition's curving horns. Though they strain against Grima's might, Chrom, Lucina, and Robin keep up easy and confident conversation.

They're here for me.

Grima's twisted features relax back to ennui. "The only good to come out of this," he drawls, stepping back, "are lessons learned." Both sides break their lock, but the dragon head, dipping low, shimmers with its hiss. "Or perhaps I should say, 'verified theories?'"

Lucina tucks in, ready for a blitz. She bites her lip as her breath quavers through her nose.

But again, the apparition disappears, as Grima shrugs. He points at Robin. "You and I being reflections is no coincidence. We hold the keys to the other's memories. Don't you think?"

I wish I didn't have to.

Dropping his hand, he turns to me and flashes a chilling grin. "You and your command are the most irritating thorns I've had to deal with, dear Rinslet." He steps forward, immediately earning the points of both Falchions at his throat. Arms open, he cackles. "You see? All it takes is your word to destroy this feeble body, but it's also your command that stays their blades. It's an irksome, nerve-wracking, infuriating position!"

"That's the same situation as the others," I snap back. "You don't get an excuse—!"

His eyes narrow. "You're suggesting I happily submit to your weak command?"

"What were you doing before, if that wasn't following orders?"

Baffled shock glitters in his wide grin. "She thinks I showed obedience?" Then, scowling, black fires writhing about, he takes a heavy step forward. "You insolent—you dare—?!"

Even with both Falchions digging into his throat, Grima holds his crazed expression, disregarding the toxic hiss bubbling at his skin. " _Do_ consider your position, Rinslet. You may be my summoner, but I have power you can't possibly command. So don't test my patience—or shall I devour you now?!"

Chrom and Lucina step into their stabs, until Robin seizes their shoulders and moves them apart.

Wary Grima closes his mouth.

"Interesting," says Robin. "No choice words for me. While I worry about this link between us, right now, I welcome it."

"Why go as far as you do, to defend an incompetent Summoner?"

Robin sighs and squares his shoulders. Unlike the rest of us, and despite his ailed look, he sounds neither troubled or confrontational. "I don't believe I have to answer that question, if we're indeed so similar."

"What's to say we are similar, when this," Grima pats his chest, "may or may not be a different you? Perhaps I am your future. Or a reflection from different memory."

"That's a fair point." Robin drums his fingers against the cover of his closed tome. "I go this far, because I know I've been growing under her command."

"Come now, I thought you'd be the last thing I'd want to tear apart!"

"Then by all means, maintain that sentiment," says Robin. "Especially since you must feel a difference after this short time?"

"Difference?" spits Grima. "More like a sickening familiarity—with her, with you—and I'd love nothing more than to rip the both of you limb from limb—!"

"Really?" Disregarding Chrom's and Lucina's protests, Robin lays his hand on my shoulder and pulls me against him. Grima, a scowl wrinkling his nose, steps back. "So what stops you now?"

Robin's proving a point. I'm the main course, Robin's the side dish, yet Grima's not biting. If he ever wanted the chance to break free of our contract, and get rid of two Falchion wielders at the same time, this close-quarters situation couldn't be a better opportunity. Yet he only threatens and provokes. Red eyes narrowed in frustration, he curls his hands into fists. He grinds his teeth. Expression flickering, he draws a hand over his sweating forehead.

He glances at Robin's hand on me and pivots away with a growl.

I voice Chrom's, Lucina's, and my collective question. "What's going on?"

Robin smiles. "Just a little hypothesis."

The crease in Grima's features reveal more than a troubled conscience. As though reliving some shadowed memory, his pallor waxes and blooms into what looks like a nearly different identity. He squeezes his eyes—golden-amber for just one moment!—shut and doubles over.

"She feels familiar to you, doesn't she?" Robin releases his hold on me. "You want to keep her close to remember why, to figure it out."

He's talking to Grima, and at the same time…

Lucina sheaths her sword, but keeps her hand curled around the handle. Frowning, she watches as a moaning Grima fights his worst headache yet. "Were these the results you two were looking for, Robin?"

Robin closes his tome. "I can only wonder. He sees this reflection of himself with her, so now it's a question of how he'll fight back."

At the same time, he's talking about himself, and the glimmer of identity that just flickered in Grima's eyes. Have we found an exploit? Can we coax more of that former self out by pushing Grima? Is that the success? With the others watching, I reach out to lay a hand on Grima's shoulder. My fingertip barely brushes against him before he lashes out and bats my hand away.

Don't touch him. I get the message. But he balls his hand into a shaking fist. He won't lash any harder. "We've learned a lot," I say. "And I won't ask you to do this again."

At least, not Chrom or Lucina. Chrom, like Lucina, keeps his hand over his sword and casts a wary expression. "We're holding you to your word, Rinslet. If you promise no more of these reckless operations, I'm happy to call it a day here."

Lucina fixes me with a frown, but between her, Robin, and Grima, I've had enough argument to last me a lifetime. I want to go back. I want to sleep. "I promise," I reply. "Thanks for putting up with me on this."

No one else touches on these results as we leave the Tower. Yet I keep wondering about Robin's hypothesis, and the self he tried to reach. While I pushed for Grima's cooperation, Robin tested that little bit of himself left in Grima. That agitation. That hesitation. That flicker and that restraint. Are these puzzle pieces I can work in my favor?

We return to the castle, Grima nursing his headache the entire way.

* * *

I didn't sleep well after that.

That night, Grima wedged into my dreams with a literal vengeance, rummaging through the images in my head until he snatched up _the one_. Concrete walls crumbling like flaking skin, rusted and skeletal beams bared and bleaching under an acidic sun, while sharp, pungent flames carpet the asphalt black—all this, this world, I see through my scope, focused and crystal clear.

Thunder crackles through the roiling clouds of ember and smoke, as six red stars gleam bitterly. Shouts below me scream war and plague, death and famine, but from my vantage point, the six stars lay in a horned head on a serpentine neck, and beat through the clouds on six feathered wings. Grima's head emerges, pointed, scaly, and pronounced unlike the apparition at the Training Tower. He cracks his jaws open in a hissing cackle, but his voice comes from behind me.

"I feel quite at home here!" Robin luxuriously fans himself as I leap up from prone. He sneers, nonchalant. "I'm sure we can negotiate my preferential adjustments. What do you say?"

I grind my teeth. "You don't belong here. Get out."

"Not a chance. You loosed two of Naga's cursed children on me, taunted me from a distance, and then refuse to submit to me?" He crossed his arms and clicked his tongue. "I believe I have every right to occupy this dream, of which you are king."

If I truly rule this dream like Grima says, I can eject him and his draconic image from it. Yet a heavy resistance, like a thick stone wall, pushes back, inert, whenever I try to imagine throwing him out. At each of my feeble nudges, Grima chuckles like I'm tickling him.

He steps closer. "Come now, Rinslet. This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Another step. "The two of us coming peacefully together for civilized conversation. I'm here." Another step. He's already in front of me. The beckoning hiss of his voice caresses the tip of my nose. His hands cup my face and force me to look up at him. "You need to put forth some effort, don't you think?"

I grab his wrists. I try to pull his hands back, try pushing and kicking away from him, but between his hold and my heel catching, I'm stuck.

"This familiarity I sense from you…" He presses his forehead against mine. "The fact we even have the same eyes—I hate you, and yet I know I can use you. But how?" He slides his hands back, fingers coiling into my air. "'Tis the only problem with ruling a human body. Pathetic thing keeps resisting like it still has control. It muddles my thoughts."

"Unless it's you yourself that wants something from me— _oow_!"

His sharp yank nearly rips my scalp off my skull. "I don't have much patience left for you, Rinslet." He grins at my winces, as my hair tangles and snaps in his fists. I bite my lip, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. "You fight so hard to swallow your cries. It's a tempting expression on you."

He releases one hand, while keeping the other knotted in my hair. With another scalp-tearing tug, he wrenches me around until I face my dreamscape. He draws an arm around me, locking me against him. Gilded affection laces his voice, grazing my ear. "So tell me. What causes cheery, driven Rinslet to wish _this_ nightmare upon her world?"

Shudders snake up my spine but I can't struggle out of his grasp. Even as I flail against him, and despite my labored yelps, Grima holds me steady against him. He whispers again. "You can tell me the truth. It'll be our secret to share."

The six stars loom lower through the clouds. "Lay yourself before me," Grima murmurs. "Tell me your wish, and I shall grant it for you, my master."

Who's Summoner, and who's Hero? Who's servant, and who's king? Where's our equal field, and _how do I get to it_? Not here, for certain. I dig my nails into his arm, drop into a crouch at his pained yelp, and hurl my body forward. Our toes scuff the precipice. The world turns. For a moment, everything holds its breath.

The ashy smoke scrapes down my skin. The concrete and glass and beams rush by me.

I've tripped us over the building and we fall through the razing air.

Chuckling, Grima lets go. I squeeze my eyes closed, waiting for my body to buckle and crush against the ground. His laughter echoes in my ears. The pressure of his hands still tangles my hair.

Through the darkness, six red stars twinkle, amused.

* * *

A spasm jerks me awake. Bedsheets and covers loop and rumple around me in damp knots. Breath icy, shallow, and quick, I shiver under cold sweat. Morning barely dawns gray-blue through my window, yet red and black rings the edges of my sight.

This can't go on. I have to end this tug-o-war. Now.

Exhaustion dulling my movement, I tumble over the side of my bed. Bones and skin hitting the cold floor, the sting slaps me awake.

Breathe. I just had a bad dream.

I peel myself off the ground, and up onto my knees and hands.

Find him. I have to find Grima.

Swaying, I totter onto shaking legs. I pull on my coat. Holster Breidablik. Head to the door. Stumble out my room.

The door swings shut behind me as I crumple against the far wall. Hands pressed against the stone, I choke down a mouthful of air. Breathe. I'm the Summoner. I'll make this work.

I slide one hand off. Feel my way staggering along the corridor. Down the tower. Across the grand hall. Are those Heroes on their way out the castle's training grounds? They're waving to me. I'll greet them properly later, with the confidence and command they expect out of their Summoner.

For now? I have business to make right.

Certainty clenches my gut. Grima's at the summoning dais.

* * *

Six shadowy wings billow against a blazing wind at Askr's summoning dais. Dark fires writhe like demonic tongues around the figure at the altar's center. Unlike our first meeting, Grima stands facing my approach, his arms crossed. He sneers. "For once," he says, "I'm thrilled to see you."

He deserves no reply from me. I march up the altar's steps and across the runic patterns until I stand an arms-length from him.

Though he raises his brow, he keeps his tone congenial. "You came to see me in such a rush—am I so intriguing to you?"

"I'm cutting the crap and niceties, Grima. So let's talk."

"Rethink your tone, and I'll _consider_ talking." He lifts a hand, moving to touch me.

Breidablik snaps into my hand, the gun's barrel smashing Grima's hand away with a crack. While he wrings his hand, I rest the butt of the gun against my palm, and steady my aim. "Try again. Cut the crap."

"So out of desperation, you're pointing your toy at me."

"A toy in a sniper's hands still snipes. I'm happy to prove that point and cancel this contract, but I promise you'll miss out on a precious opportunity."

He rolls his eyes. "Still playing negotiator? You've nothing to offer me."

I take a deep breath. I'm sorry, Robin. "So power tenfold means nothing to you?"

Grima freezes, eyes wide and blinking slowly.

I close one eye, sighting his forehead, dead-center. "All-powerful and knowledgeable as you are, you must be aware of the multiple iterations of you, countless as the stars in our skies."

"Each from a different possible Ylisse, each resurrected incomplete." Grima steps back, an easy, challenging smile relaxing his alarm. He lays a hand over his chest. "Some, like me, successfully followed their destinies. Others, like that child who shadows you as your dearest support, need extra help. And very few failed, my shadow no longer reaching through their planes."

He shrugs and opens his arms, his wings unfurling in the same motion. "Fate, aggravating web of possibilities that it is, inevitably ends. It progresses at its own pace and into its own shape. Whether slowly or quickly, into a bloom or arrow-straight, I no longer care. I've learned patience in my long years. So I've taken to simply watching the patterns unfold."

Grima covers his mouth. His light chuckle gives him, for one heart-stopping moment, Robin's air. "I digress. But yes, I'm aware of my multiplicity. Any more pointless questions?"

"Pointless? As if." I curl my finger into the trigger guard. "What if I told you I can summon as many iterations of you as my power allows?"

He lifts a brow. "Go on."

"As Summoner, I can perform a ritual." Robin, I'm so, so sorry. "I can merge you, and all iterations of you I summon into one entity." Grima regards me with a pointed, wary glare. He's hooked onto the words I'm offering. "You wouldn't have to cross dimensions to find your missing memories anymore—I can fuse them with you, here in Askr."

"And the catch?"

"I can perform this ritual only up to ten times. And with summoning being as finicky as it is, you'd have to give me time to collect these alternate fragments of you."

"I have plenty of time," he says, rolling his shoulders. "But fine. I'll give you time for your luck to turn my way." He narrows his eyes, his voice dropping to a deadly hiss. "Yet maintaining our contract 'til then can't be your only offer."

He expects the value of my offer to equal the power he'll ultimately possess. I lower Breidablik, my palm still over the butt, yet finger out of the trigger guard. "Well," I start, "what else could you want from me? I basically become Grimleal, and promise your freedom once Askr no longer needs your power."

"And I'm giving you time to gather your resources, as well as my power in the interim. I have no guarantees this ritual will be completed by the time you weed Asrk out of its conflicts, so I wonder, what exactly do you stand to lose in this scenario?"

He steps closer. I flinch back upright, Breidablik's sights trained again on the spot between Grima's eyes. He stops and chuckles. "I see. After you offer an opportunity I can't afford to refuse, I now hesitate to cross you. Clever." He throws his hands up as though in defeat, but his smirk oozes confidence. "Then I'll offer my demands. Two things, to be exact."

I lower my guard. Grima lowers his hands. He taps a finger against his temple. "You have dreams, visions of a different world unlike anything I've seen before. You will take me there as my first condition."

Breidablik nearly tumbles out of my hands. "How can I agree—?!"

"Humans there are far worse than I can imagine here. Bloody rapes by the hundreds of thousands? Fetid squalor the beds of millions? Hell crawls in the darkest corners of your world, Rinslet. Making the dead walk and devour seems tame in comparison."

All of that, from just the images in my dreams. Grima almost sounds sympathetic.

"So I'm ultimately offering you a favor: a realization of those dreams we've now seen together." His voice slows as he approaches me again. He slides his hands around mine. He presses my wrists down—presses Breidablik down—and leans closer. "I can make your world kneel to me. I can cleanse it for you, in whatever manner you wish."

I have to promise him a place in my world. If I agree now, I can buy some time. Can I find a different angle to renegotiate with him? Not quickly enough. Then can I give him a half-answer? Probably not; he'll force a clear answer out of me. But he'll grant my wish? Realize my dreams? Let me watch that world burn, just like it deserves?

No.

No, _no_.

I don't have the right to pass that judgment. There's still some good left in that world.

Right?

But he's generously offering his power to my command, to help me protect Askr. Nifl. Maybe even Múspell and Embla if they call for our aid. This world, these Heroes, these people, these friends—all of them possibly spared if I say 'yes' to this first condition.

It's easy. I can do it. I _should_ do it. Not only for my sake, but for everyone's—

"Rinslet." Somehow, Grima's behind me, his whisper warming my ear. His robes shuffle with his shifting wings, as he draws his hands over my eyes. "Remember, I only respect the truth. Lay yourself before me."

"I'm not—I wouldn't lie to you."

"Certainly. You've learned not to be so foolish."

"If I do this, if I agree—this would—I'm doing this for my own sake, as well as theirs."

Grima clicks his tongue. "I appreciate your honest selfishness," he says. "Your humanity charms even me."

Humanity. The wrongness of that word on Grima's voice makes me shudder. "So? Your second condition?"

"Oh don't deny me my gratification, Rinslet. I need to hear confirmation. Your word."

I can't back out. It's not for me. It's for everyone. I just get a bonus out of it, and maybe I can negotiate with him one more time.

But I get to watch it burn to the ground.

No! Just because I've seen the worst of it doesn't mean I can—but I can.

I _can_. That's the thing.

"I—I give you a place in my world." Teeth chattering. Voice trembling. I can fix this later, but I also know what I want to see. Gods. Have I always been this low of a person? "I promise."

Grima snickers. "Simple, isn't it? No need to sweat so badly."

Too simple. I'm cold and hot in waves, excited and devastated in spikes.

"And now," he whispers, still low, still tempting, "for my second condition…"

But what more can I give him? What else haven't I sacrificed by agreeing to his terms? His thumbs rub my temples in gentle circles. Assurance and fatigue weave together into a tempting restfulness. The questions fizzle out. I, with Grima's hands still over my eyes, and a feathery veil holding me snug against him, nod back. Breidablik clatters to the ground.

Grima's breath slides into a smile.

"Dream."

* * *

Fog clouds the way ahead. The ground beneath my feet feels firm and steady, even with its inset grooves between the mortar. Across and behind me, haze rolls into the sky. Wind tosses my hair and robes into curtains behind me, following the same current as the haze. We're moving. Flying.

Between the cracks, the pale stone ground glows red. Sticky underneath my boots and metallic to my nose, redness crawls and gels the further it slips away from its source. If I turn my head the right way, the scarlet lines link together into the image of six eyes—or maybe my exhaustion continues to paint Grima in my head.

Strange then, that he's yet to comment on the sight before me.

The haze parts. The red lines pulse an evil glow, drawing me toward them.

Red lines mark the path to my destination. I follow.

My steps echo in this sky, each beat of my heel against the cobble like ripples in water. The drafts of wingbeats pound harder the further I walk ahead. Each step weighs heavier than the last, leaden by the malevolent drafts the invisible wings stir.

I'm stronger than this. I can carry myself.

My next step splashes into a deeper pool of red. It scatters across my boots and against the hem of my robes. The smell of metal and flesh hang stagnant in the air.

Red—blood—starts from a body. There's enough here for one. I follow the trail with my eyes, up to the body clenched between the curved teeth of a six-eyed monster.

My legs instantly weaken. "Oh—!" I trip backwards, sticky splashes reminding me to stay steady. "Oh— _lord_ —!"

Black robes, tattered. White hair, flecked with rust—no—dried blood. Those lovely eyes—or what used to be this Robin's golden eyes—clouded, graying. His breath whistles through the punctures down his body; only Grima's teeth hold him together, at least until those jaws shut tight.

Robin's eyes struggle to meet mine. He lifts his free hand, shaking. He tries making the sound of my name, but his breath leaks out instead into a gasp, a convulsion that makes Grima shift. Robin squeezes his eyes shut as Grima's teeth gouge ever deeper into him, and yet, he strains his arm, his hand, his fingertips, to reach me.

I will my knees to wade me through that blood. I will myself to touch his fingertips, but their iciness bites back. He's dead. Gods, he's dead. But I know, I remember, what he said out there. _If there's any fragment of good—of me—left in it…_

I can't be afraid.

When I lay my palm over his, only a spark of warmth flickers in the center of his hand. I clasp both of mine over his— _you're only person who can reach it_ —my futile attempt to wish this Robin back to life, to call him back from this cruel fate.

Six scarlet eyes swivel down at me, as I buckle to my knees. A dull splat drenches my pants and the hems of my tunic in sticky red. "I can't help you," is all I can squeak out of my knotted throat. "I get this far—I _finally_ get here, to you—and I can't help you?" We're all aware of this certainty, but my voice still refuses to accept. "I can't help you."

The jaws before me hiss out a low groan, warmed and stinking by dragon breath. Robin, however, forces out a thin smile.

 _To think, a child of my own would cause as much trouble as that of cursed Naga._

Unearthly, deliberate, pained, yet commanding—this is Grima's voice. Neither male or female, yet godly all the same, they gingerly lift their head and allow a hazy sun to shine between their bloodied teeth. Light catches the metal of a jagged blade lodged into the roof of Grima's mouth.

 _Here, Summoner, you find me locked, half-deceased and half-satiated, by the hand of my own. It is an infuriating stalemate indeed._

The fingers between my hands twitch and curl around my palm. A reedy sigh rasps through Robin, his escaping breath bubbling a tooth-filled puncture in his neck. I can't bear to look for long without heaving. "How long have you kept him like this?"

 _Long enough for a glimpse of his glorious destiny as mine. Yet here we are._

"You've got to let him die, Grima! Harbinger of despair or whatever you call yourself, you can at least spare your vessel this torture!"

Robin's hand squeezes harder, just as a cackle rumbles around me. _You make the mistake of assuming my whims put us in this position._

Meaning, Robin forced this?

 _Were I to devour this clever child now, we become one. I gain the freedom to move as I please, without his thoughts or hesitation impeding me—symptoms you've witnessed by now._

His hesitation out there to break through Chrom, Lucina, and Robin to reach me. His keen attention to the other Robin's warnings, and even that visibly painful headache in response to Robin's appeals: "She feels familiar to you, doesn't she? You want to keep her close to remember why, to figure it out." Then his gentle, albeit disconcerting, easing of me into this dream, how horrifyingly majestic he stood with his six wings open and dark aura dancing like a roaring fire.

His dangerous whisper at my ear, his hands over my eyes. _Lay yourself before me._

In here, Grima apparently considers that vestigial humanity a curse, a wall to the realization of their full potential. They attribute their missing memories, incomplete power, and apparent frailness to this corpse between their jaws. This body, who desperately clings on to life by one strained thread.

 _This is my second condition, Summoner. Make him let go._

Let go. Put him out of his misery. Kill him. In Robin's condition, it won't take much effort. Nudge his head a little bit. Lay my hand over his nose and mouth. He's already about to go. I just have to send him off.

Breath rattling through him, he stares at me. He tightens his grip, his eyes widening. There's a slight twitch of his head. I know what he's trying to say: Don't do this.

I don't want to. Even thinking about doing it, my hands shake and sweat, and my breath shivers. I'm about to cry. And yet… "Yet you know," I whisper to him, "that this would be for Askr's sake. For _your_ sake; you've suffered enough!"

Even in his dying pallor, alarm still pales him further. The bones in my hand buckle and creak in his fist—deathgrip is no joke.

"We're bound by contract, as Summoner and Hero. Grima gains no benefit from crossing me, I swear."

A contemptuous snort rushes out of the jaws, Grima's breath pushing more red rivulets from between their teeth. Robin squeezes his eyes shut, his winces shuddering into convulsions. I look away, dry-heaving again.

I lay my free hand against his stained hair. "You're fighting against them." His features relax. "I get it. You've been fighting here, all by yourself. You even got your sword up their mouth—you really are amazing, you know?"

My head runs with words and feelings from the past few days, from this image now. "There's a Robin outside, you know. A different you. You teach me everything you know about running an army: tactics, conditioning, inventory, history. You're kind and good to me." I press my forehead against his. "You're always looking out for me. You know when I need you."

His breath wavers against my skin. "Even… now…?"

"Of course I need you now." I need you to let go. To stop torturing yourself like this. "I can't—I hurt to watch you like this."

"But I—Chrom—!" The hitch in his voice gurgles into bloody coughs. Gods, stop, make this stop.

The corner of Grima's mouth curls up into a sneer. It's a smile that can suggest anything, but I know, based on Lucina's word, what binds this Robin in such deep regret. "Lucina says Grima killed her father." He freezes, rigid against my voice. "Out there, with me, you concluded you and Grima were one and the same."

His trembling rattles his breath further. Much as I try, no amount of my touch soothes his sobs. "I didn't—it wasn't—!"

"—On purpose." I glare up at the jaws and horned head over us. "I know. I've dealt with Grima enough, Robin. It wasn't you. Yet, if I'm assuming correctly, your entire world fell apart, by your hand. So you live on here, fighting and resisting your fate. This is you atoning for a tragedy you believe yourself responsible."

Tears clearing streaks down his features, Robin's lips twitch into a hopeless smile.

 _You simply fulfilled your role, your destiny, as the Deliverer. Truly the most glorious accomplishment of your life, my child._

Fury jolts Robin's body. "I am _not_ —!"

I hold him down. His own motion will kill him, and I don't want this to be how he goes. "—Don't!"

"I wanted none of this—!"

"Don't listen to them!" Heaving against my hands pressing his shoulders down, Robin relaxes. The brief spark in his eyes fades into a resigned, wincing sigh. "Please. Listen to me."

The pulse of his breath weakens, but he opens his mouth again. "Rinslet…" he chokes.

"I'm here," I reply. "And I forgive you."

The hazy sun filters through the fog, just enough to bring a faded luster to Robin's widening, watering eyes. He turns his head to me, his questioning evident.

"Yeah," I answer. Stillness prickles the air, as though the pervading evil silences its overtures for just one needling second. Disbelief hums in sync between Robin and Grima, though this time, I can't tell who affects who. "It doesn't mean much coming from me, does it? But if no one else in these worlds can find it in themselves to forgive you, I want to be the one person who can. Would I be okay?"

A low purr rumbles from the back of Grima's throat. Their six eyes close at the same time their warped voice sounds again. _Forgiveness. A lofty word for one so low. Yet I sense a resonance to it, especially on your voice. It is quiet like a lullaby._

Robin turns his head again, watching Grima's contemplative expression. "A lullaby," he sighs. He closes his eyes, a certain finality to the motion. His lips barely shape his breath into a coherent word. "Tired…"

Tired of fighting. Tired of purgatory. Tired of this personal torture continuing for gods-know-how-long. He wants to breathe free and clear again, instead of blood and fog and an evil he never asked for. "I know," I say, again resting his forehead against his. "I know, Robin. No matter where you are, in here or out there, you're always fighting. You need your rest."

Questions buzz in my head. If Robin lets go here, I fulfill part of my deal with Grima. The Fell Dragon will fight on my behalf, for Askr's sake until I declare his power no longer necessary. Will Grima cross me after this? Am I killing Robin? Am I making the right choice, sitting here and soothing a dying man for the sake of a dark god? Where's my guarantee that I won't end up taking Robin's place, snapped and lacerated between those serrated jaws? For whose sake am I putting myself in this position? Mine? Askr's? Grima's? Robin's?

"I can… rest now?"

That's my answer. This is for Robin's sake. This is for my sake—my own peace of mind, to wipe this image of him from my memory and let him rest like he deserves. "If you trust me. I've arranged a deal with Grima. I won't let your fight go to waste. I promise."

Dark lights lift off Robin's body like hesitant fireflies. "I know," he murmurs. Glimmering and brightening, the lights drift away into the winds. Robin fades, but he smiles one last time. "I've been… listening. I wish…" He lifts his hand once more, his fingertips lightly brushing my cheek. "I could have…"

The black fireflies dissipate, scattering into the haze as Robin's voice trails off.

While a choking pang seizes my stomach, a relieved rumble gurgles through Grima. Maw opened wide, they lift their head to the sky and scream victory into their reverberating bellow. _So you meet your inevitable fate, devoured and at one with me! Cursed, stubborn child, I shall keep your sword as a memento of this glorious occasion! And now…!_

The great horned head swings back down and levels with me, shaking and swallowing down the tears bubbling in the back of my throat. _Now we can begin_. Nostrils flaring, dragon breath bloody and searing, Grima's crimson eyes glitter with anticipation. _Your methods are artful, Rinslet. And here I expected you to smother him into submission._ Nudging me to my feet with their snout, Grima's six eyes narrow in mirth. _You "forgive" him? With just one word, you've made him into both deliverer and martyr, a living tale of suffering to pass on through the ages. It seems I have much to learn from you._

I'm in no position, and neither do I have the right, to say I can forgive another person. That's why I'm still choking on my cries, and why my head's filling itself with excuse after empty excuse. I've killed him. I may have ended his misery, but it's no justification for the fact his blood stains my hands. Once I leave here, how am I supposed to look at Robin anymore? I've betrayed him for my own benefit.

As my legs crumple beneath me and I cover up my watering eyes, Grima blows an irked sigh. _Shards_ , they start, _of that foolish child remain within me_.

"So…" Through dry lips, I shudder on the iciness of my own rushed breath. "So he's still alive?"

Grima lowers their head again. _Inconsequential pieces_ , they clarify. _But such is the troublesome aspect of vessels. They'll be forgotten soon, yet those fragments must remain, else the body crumbles like ash against the wind_.

The jaws crack open into a sneer. _But let us move on from this talk, Rinslet. You've fulfilled my second condition. I shall reward you accordingly_.

* * *

As I awake, Robin's last smile burns in my thoughts. His tear streaks, the rusty flakes dusting his hair, the red dribbles sticking against his pallid skin, his fading eyes and his reedy breath—they make up an image I know will always ripple in a distant corner of my mind. My nightmares, I know, are only going to get worse.

As if mocking me, Askr's clear skies, mottled only by wispy clouds, greet my heaving, sweating body. No traces of that evil fog remain, and yet I can feel a fiery presence burning black behind me.

Steps scuff their way toward me.

"No," I mumble. "No, no, no."

An amused snicker. Then, Robin leers over me. Robin, eyes bright red, glowing patterns illustrating four more eyes down his cheeks. Gods. I'm stuck. I'm dreaming. I can't get out and no one can help me, this is what I get—!

"—You're very much awake, Rinslet." He pulls back and nudges me up with the toe of his boot. "As you can see, I'm neither large or famished enough to devour you."

In there, Grima said Robin still lives, but I doubt it more and more as I stumble to my feet. I can't even question his answering my thoughts anymore. After all, he's been in my head long enough.

Grinning as though again agreeing with me, Grima hisses a content sigh. "You've exceeded my expectations," he says, opening and closing a fist. "Thanks to your ploy, this body fits more naturally than I anticipated."

"You mean—?!"

"Like a glove."

"So I—I helped you assimilate that body."

"I only told you to make him let go."

"I know he wasn't the Robin I see everyday, but that—that was my friend, my partner! You asked me to murder—!"

"—And you _chose_ to do it. Can you really blame me for your own decision?"

No. Of course not. What—what have I done?

Grima continues, unperturbed. "You held up your end of our deal. Part of it, at least." He clicks his tongue, the sound prompting me to look at him. "But answer me this." The six wings fade, along with the markings of his remaining four eyes. With a strained expression, Grima crosses his arms. "You hardly shook upon beholding my complete form. Why?"

Why indeed, and why would I want to answer? What's the shock of one ugly dragon versus the hollowness of watching my best friend's life passing, like sand through a sieve? Why indeed.

While I press disturbingly clean hands to my face, Grima snorts. "I suppose, considering your own visions of your filthy world, seeing my repulsive form hardly moved you."

"Never thought you'd have image issues." My voice grinds against my throat. Even the softest whisper feels like gravel. All I can do is think and apologize, then think even more, but none of that, I know, will ever atone for what I've done.

Grima, meanwhile, presses his hand against his chest. Out the corner of my eye, I catch a twitch in his features. "Hubris," he strangely starts, "gave birth to me. Greed and selfishness twisted me this way, making me human vice incarnate."

Introspection? How _human_ of the Fell Dragon. Then again, Grima mentioned in there that "shards" live on. Without them, the body can't hold. So that means—just maybe!—Robin still lives just enough to crack open this window into Grima's soul. Can I bet on it? Can I reach him one more time, without Grima catching on? Can he—will he—respond?

"If that's your shape as the reflection of human vice..." I wait for Grima's attention to turn back to me. His face is taut—this must be my chance. "…Does that mean virtue can reshape you?"

"If you're asking if your pathetic 'virtue' would affect me, then certainly not. A Summoner like you, who drove herself into a contract with me, 'for Askr's sake?'" His tension snaps back into clarity, as well as condescension. Red eyes narrowed, Grima snorts again. "Honesty is your sole shred of virtue. You were at least smart enough to lay your true desires at my feet."

 _I'm doing this for my own sake, as well as theirs…I give you a place in my world_. Desperate words I can never take back.

Uncertainty flashes again in Grima's frown. "But there's something to it," he mutters. "Forgiveness. Clearly a leftover influence in this body, but that word—that sentiment—has done something."

Switching his focus back to me, he lifts my chin with one finger. I can't fight his unblinking gaze anymore, even though I feel him searching through me again. But then, he sighs. He lets me go. Steps back and spreads his shimmering wings. "I need time to think," he says. "I'll leave you for now."

If only he were so gracious a few days ago.

Eager to leave Grima behind, I pivot around and beeline for the dais's steps. First, I'll get some rest. I'll get my thoughts together. I'll make my plans, I'll make my second and third plans, and I'll try to both fix and work this mess I've caused. I should—but I don't want to—talk to Robin. Would he forgive—?

"—Rinslet."

I drag myself to look at Grima over my shoulder. Shadowy feathers drift to the ground as his six wings lift him into the air. "Just a thought," he muses, "about vice and virtue." He refuses to meet my eye. "And about yours in particular. Perhaps…"

I don't have the choice to not listen to him anymore. Moreover, he's again cracking open a small window into himself. If I want any chance at renegotiation, I have to find these kinds of hairline cracks in his demeanor.

"Perhaps," he starts again, "if humanity can find virtue—kindness—within their vice… If something like your 'forgiveness' exists somewhere in humanity, then one day, I may change." His contemplative words hang heavy between us, until he snorts with contempt. "To have both vice and virtue shape me so—it sounds so pathetically human, and yet, so—hmm…"

Still gazing far into the distance, Grima clutches a fistful of the robes near his heart.

Robin's heart.

"If you change that drastically," I reply, "that means my 'pathetic' virtue is still worth something, don't you think?"

"You dream far too much," Grima snarls. He turns his back to me. "But I suppose… dreams shape the paths of fate. I do look forward to watching your path unfold."

Icy gales whip around the dais. When the breezes settle, I'm left alone at the ruins. The clear skies hint none of Grima's presence, as though my nightmares have been nothing but illusions.

I've paid my good will and humanity, and I still have a debt fulfill. As heavy and sour as the sacrifices weigh on me, Grima finally seems willing to follow my command.

And what do I know? Humans change within one breath. The same should go for a Fell Dragon whose humanity still lives on within him.

Let's see, then, how our paths unfold and weave together.


End file.
